The Black Dress Read online

  Mamma read obediently. ‘Mr MacKillop is not only a Roman Catholic, but was actually educated for the Romish priesthood, and is, therefore, what we should call in Scotland, “a stickit priest”.’

  ‘You see! Not a word about my letters—not one word. Not a word about the debates on education and the poor. No! They think all they have to do is brand me a Roman Catholic and no-one will listen to me. Well, by God, they’ll think again!’

  That evening he brought out his reply and read it to us enthusiastically.

  ‘Dr Lang’s publications, so far as I have read them, are, for the most part, a tissue of glaring falsehoods, infamous scandals, bigoted opinions, egregious calumnies, and seditious satires,’ he said with satisfaction.

  I didn’t understand any of those words, but they sounded fine and grown-up.

  ‘You don’t think perhaps that’s a little strong?’ Mamma asked.

  ‘He’s an avowed enemy to all Catholics!’ Papa said. ‘Am I supposed to let him get away with his lies and insults? It’s my duty to reply.’

  ‘If you say so, Alexander,’ Mamma said.

  Papa was so happy with his letter that he played hide and seek with Maggie and John and me until bedtime. We thought that anything that made Papa that happy must be a good thing—although it led to many jokes from our friends at that Sunday’s Mass. Mamma just smiled at the jokes, but Maggie got into a fight with one of the Anderson girls when she called Papa a stickit priest.

  I have been trying, in recalling those times, to pretend that I was untouched by Papa’s political fights. But I have to admit now how I hated them. Not Mr Dunmore Lang. I never met him, and he seemed almost incidental to the process. What I hated, I think, was Papa’s need to fight. It was a real need, no doubt. A need to be up and doing, to be important, to matter to the world. That need has led to saints and statesmen before now, but in Papa’s case all it led to was bitterness and enmity.

  I have wished, now and then, that I could have talked to my father as an adult during those times—to have been able to put into words what I felt as a child. I have wished I could have turned him aside from his crusades. What futility. For what could I have said that he had not already heard? ‘Love your enemies; do good to those that hate you...’ If he didn’t heed the words of Christ, he would not have heeded mine.

  At the time, I hated the sense that we were surrounded by people who wished Papa ill. Wished us ill, as we were all Roman Catholics. I hated the energy Papa put into his letters and, later, speeches. It seemed a dark and destroying energy and I didn’t want it to have a place in our lives. It twisted my stomach and shortened my breath. Gradually, it made me realise that my father was not, at heart, a gentle or peace-loving man. Kind, yes. Generous to a fault. But not calm, not forgiving. I felt sorry for his enemies.

  In my later life, when I was the subject of public debate and recrimination, of scandal and calumny, I sought for ways of calming the debate, of minimising the controversy, no matter how badly I was misrepresented. Every time I realised there was a public fight brewing, I felt that old tension rising in my stomach. There were so many people who could be hurt by public furore, including the people who were trying to hurt me. I did not want to be responsible for that. And I had seen that public rebuttal and debate only led to further justification from the other side, and an entrenchment of positions. It did no good. How could it, when it was fuelled by a desire to be seen to be right, rather than a desire to do right?

  Well ... I had not realised that before. I have my father to thank for teaching me that lesson. Who would have thought I could learn to be thankful for his extremism? Perhaps, if I continue, I can even find a way to be thankful to him for leaving us.

  1851—SANDRIDGE PORT

  My father left us on February 6th, 1851. Black Thursday, the Melbourne Argus called it. The day bushfires swept through the colony and reduced hundreds of homes and farms to cinders and death. Our own troubles might have seemed trivial by comparison, but they didn’t to us. Losing Papa for who knew how long seemed much worse than bushfires.

  The people on the wharf, waiting to board the Mariner, were talking drought and ruin. I was hotter than I’d ever been and sweating in the good wool dress Mamma had made me wear. And I was angry. The strongest and the worst kind of anger, that seems to be on behalf of someone else but is, deep down, anger for yourself.

  The wind was blowing towards us from the fires, carrying the choking smell of smoke and ashes. A large flake of ash floated down and settled on Lexie’s forehead. The baby blinked in surprise and screwed up her face, ready to cry.

  ‘Shh, shh,’ Mamma said, brushing at the ash and leaving a long streak of black above Lexie’s eyes. Mamma jiggled and patted Lexie’s bottom until she settled. She didn’t settle for long. To avoid the bushfires, we had been forced to take a long detour. It had taken us over three hours to get to Port Phillip. Lexie would be howling with hunger soon, and there was nowhere on this baking, exposed wharf that Mamma could go to feed her.

  Poor Mamma was looking very pale. Papa was at the gangplank, talking to one of the ship’s officers. It seemed like he had been talking for hours.

  The hot wind stirred our skirts and flicked up Mamma’s bonnet. It was so hot that the tar between the ship’s side planks was bubbling.

  ‘Can I take my boots off now, Mamma?’ John asked. Mamma shook her head, even as trickles of sweat were coming down either side of John’s face.

  ‘You have to look like little ladies and gentlemen. Don’t disgrace your Papa in front of everyone.’

  The clipper rocked at anchor, its topmost yards swaying from side to side in the gusts. Annie was staring upwards, her eyes following the swaying of the mast. She was turning green. A seasick Annie was all we needed. Mamma hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Annie!’ I said. ‘Look at the baby. Look at Lexie, Annie. Doesn’t she look funny with the black on her face?’

  Mamma bent down so Annie could stare into Lexie’s face. At two and a half, Annie was always trying to ‘look after’ Lexie. But ‘looking after’ usually meant patting her very hard on the cheek until she cried, or trying to pull her out of Mamma’s arms into her own. Now, Annie laughed at the big black smut across Lexie’s face and tried to wipe it off with her own grubby hand.

  ‘Gently, gently,’ Mamma said.

  Maggie was looking very pale indeed. She wasn’t strong and heat drained her even in normal summers.

  ‘Go and sit near the water where you might get a breeze, Maggie,’ said Mamma. ‘John, why don’t you and Annie go for a walk up the pier with Mary?’ Her eyes pleaded for help, so I took Annie’s hand and walked towards the water.

  John was still sulking because Papa wouldn’t be home for his sixth birthday in three weeks’ time. He was deliberately sitting on the edge of the wharf where Mamma had told him not to go. I didn’t blame him. Oh, that day I was full of rebellion, chock-full of defiance and rage. I didn’t see why Papa had to go back to Scotland, leaving us all alone. Why did Mr McLaughlin have to go Home, anyway? And even if he did, why did Papa have to go with him?

  Papa had explained it all, of course.

  ‘I gave my word, children,’ he had said the week before, when he announced to our family that he would be sailing for Scotland on the next boat. ‘Mr McLaughlin once asked me if I would accompany him back to Scotland if his health grew bad. I promised him I would. You know we must always keep our promises, don’t you?’

  John and I had nodded. We stood in front of Papa’s desk in the office at Darebin Creek Farm. Annie sat on Papa’s knee, not understanding any of it, and Lexie was quiet in Mamma’s arms, asleep for once.

  ‘I will be leaving on the Mariner next Thursday.’

  It had been early morning, and the glare of the February sun hadn’t made the office too hot yet. I thought, That’s why Mamma was crying last night. Mamma’s eyes were still red, and her hands clutched at Lexie’s shawl. I set my teeth. It’s not fair.

  ‘I don’t see why Mr McLaughlin
needs you. He could go on his own. We need you more than he does.’

  Papa’s eyes flashed, as they did when he was angry. I felt my stomach clench. Please, Holy Mother, don’t let him start shouting. But Mamma said, ‘Alexander...’ and he bit his lip.

  ‘I gave my word, Maria Ellen. And that is all you need to know.’

  I daresay he truly believed it was all we needed to know. We were children, after all, raised in a time when children were more harshly disciplined than they are now. As a child I didn’t understand why he left. As I lie here I realise I am older now than Papa was then, yet I still don’t understand his actions. It seems ... unthinkable. To leave your wife and five children alone on a farm which needed a man to work it, in a time of drought, with no money in reserve, no prospect of prosperity, no security. For all my father knew when he got on that ship, the fires might have been through our farm already. We might have been going home to a burned-out homestead. We might have lost everything. I doubt he gave it a thought.

  In one way, I suppose, it was a tribute to my mother. He clearly believed that she could cope with whatever happened while he was away. Unfortunately, he was wrong.

  I have thought this over many, many times in my life, and I still do not understand it. Why did Papa let a promise made in more prosperous times override his duty to his family? It seems to me that his view of honour—which ruled so many of his actions, from his political fights to his financial affairs—was in many ways a child’s view, perhaps already set by the time he entered the seminary at 12. For most of us, adolescence is a time when we adjust our simplistic notions of right and wrong. When we come to understand that following the path God intends for us is not simple. That sometimes we may not know which of two difficult choices is the right one. Prayer often leads us to the right choice, but not always. Could it be that Papa never went through that process of understanding, which only comes when difficult decisions have to be faced? The sheltered life of the seminary never caused him to question his simple view of the world. There was right, and there was wrong. That there might be competing rights, and shades of wrongness, he never even considered. He had given his word and had to keep it. That was all there was to it. God would look after his family because he was doing the right thing. For an intelligent man, he had a dreadful lack of foresight.

  I have to smile at that thought. It’s the first time I’ve ever been able to smile at my father’s mistakes. Thinking of him as a solemn 12-year-old has helped, I think. And realising that he was only half my age now when he set off on that benighted voyage. The poor, silly young thing, so earnest and sure he was wise. Oh, Lord, aren’t we all sure we are wise when we are young. And don’t we learn our mistake!

  ***

  John and I walked up and down the wharf with Annie between us, each grasping a chubby hand.

  The wind swirled ash around us and willy-willies danced up and down the blackened timbers of the wharf, dragging dust and leaves with them. It was the hottest day that I can remember. The sweat was tickling me as it ran under my bonnet and down my neck. My collar scratched. My feet hurt.

  Smoke hid the horizon and made it hard to breathe. Ash fell on us continually, in long delicate flakes. The sky was raining charcoal snow, and Papa was leaving, but I was determined not to cry.

  Papa called to us now and obediently we went back to the boarding plank of the Mariner.

  ‘I have to go now, children.’ His voice was very gentle. His eyes were warm and there was the hint of tears. I had seen Papa crying from pain, once, and almost cry from anger many times, but never like this.

  I felt my own eyes begin to prick with tears so I took a deep breath. The little ones are already upset, I thought. If I cry, they’ll all start.

  ‘Goodbye, Papa,’ I said.

  ‘Now, you’ll look after your mother, won’t you, Maria Ellen?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I’m the eldest, so I suppose it’s my job.

  ‘And John and Maggie, you’ll help Mary?’

  John nodded. He still wasn’t talking to his papa.

  Papa hugged Annie and kissed the baby on her dirty forehead. Maggie hugged him, her eyes streaming. Then he held out his arms to John. For a moment John stuck his lip out, refusing to respond. Then Mamma spoke, her voice very soft.

  ‘Your papa will be away a long time, John. Won’t you say goodbye to him?’

  John flung himself into Papa’s arms, sobbing gustily.

  ‘Don’t go, don’t g-g-g-go...’

  Papa hugged him tightly. Then he handed John to Mamma and John buried his head in her shoulder.

  ‘Mary, are you going to cry, too? Or are you going to be my brave girl, and offer it up for the Holy Souls in Purgatory?’

  My heart split into two. One half was full of hot red anger, the other aching with hurt. Neither part felt brave. My mouth trembled and I couldn’t speak.

  Papa put his arms around me and hugged me tightly. He smelt of ash and hot wind and wool and sweat. I wanted to hug him back to show I didn’t hate him, but it was so hot. I couldn’t breathe with his arms around me. I felt dizzy, so I tried to push him away.

  ‘Too hot,’ I said faintly.

  Papa straightened abruptly. I could see he thought that I didn’t want to hug him because I was angry with him. I wanted to say something to show he was wrong. Then I thought, Let him think it. I am cross with him. But when Papa moved away from me I wanted to grab his coat tails and pull him back.

  ‘Well, goodbye then, and God keep you all safe. Flora, don’t worry about anything. Peter will look after you.’ He kissed Mamma lingeringly on the mouth—even in my distress I realised it was a shocking thing to do in public—and walked up the boarding plank.

  John cried louder, and Annie started crying in sympathy. Lexie began to bellow with hunger and fright. Maggie stood weeping silently.

  Mamma stared up at Papa’s retreating back, tears running down her face but without a trace of the anger John and I felt. Papa turned to wave at the top of the plank, and then disappeared over the ship’s side.

  Mamma looked around. The three younger ones were crying and clinging to her. I couldn’t cry when they were in such a state. I felt responsibility for the family settle on my shoulders imperceptibly, like a shawl of ash. Look after Mamma? Look after everyone, he meant. It wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t need to look after Mamma. That was his job. I was only nine years old. He was supposed to look after me.

  I took Annie firmly by the hand.

  ‘Stop crying, now, Annie. Look, Annie, look at the birdie.’ I pointed to a seagull; its normally white feathers a dirty grey with ash. ‘Come on, Mamma, let’s get out of here.’

  ‘The ship won’t sail for another half hour, Mary,’ Mamma protested. ‘Don’t you want to wave goodbye to your papa?’

  ‘I want to get Lexie fed and Annie a drink and John something to eat. And I want you and Maggie to have a rest out of the heat.’

  There was a knot just under my breastbone. I couldn’t eat anything, myself. But the others ... the others needed some lunch.

  ‘You’re an old soul, Mary MacKillop,’ Mamma said, half-crying, half-laughing, although I didn’t see then what was funny. ‘Come along with you then, sweetheart, and we’ll find somewhere out of the sun.’

  1851—DAREBIN CREEK DISTRICT

  Later we found that it had been 117 °F—in the shade—on the day that Papa had sailed. The hottest day in the recorded history of Melbourne, and no rain in sight. Half-a-dozen of our friends were forced to leave their properties, having lost everything in the fires. We returned to Darebin Creek through black, smoking devastation, terrified of what we would find at home.

  Luckily the fire had missed Darebin Creek by more than a mile. Only the outermost paddocks had been scorched, and the house was untouched.

  But without Papa the farm seemed very strange. It was frightening that the birds were silent. It seemed like a bad omen. It’s just because of the heat, I told myself.

  We had taken our boots off on the t
rip home, but we were still sweating all over our good clothes.

  ‘Come on, then,’ I said, ‘let’s get into our ordinary things.’

  But before we could all get inside, a wagon lumbered through the gate, piled high.

  I saw Mrs Seward first, sitting on top of a box in the front of the wagon, her face blotched from crying and the heat. Their farm just down the Darebin road, so close to ours, had been burnt out.

  Mr Seward climbed down from the wagon like an old man.

  ‘We’ve lost everything, Flora,’ he said to Mamma. ‘We didn’t know where else to turn.’

  ‘Well, now, of course you came to us,’ Mamma said, and moved straight away to help Mrs Seward down from the wagon. ‘Come away in. Come away in. You’ll stay with us as long as need be.’

  All the Sewards had left was a wagonload of things they had saved from the fire: a table and chairs, some cooking pots, Mrs Seward’s china that she had brought out from Scotland, their clothes. The big furniture—the beds, the beautiful mahogany sideboard, and the settee—had all been burnt, along with all their books.

  Adeline Seward was my best friend. She was my age but she was much smaller than me, and fair as fair with blonde hair and pale blue eyes. She climbed down from the wagon and just stood there, staring.

  ‘She looks like a ghost,’ Maggie whispered at me.

  ‘A stupid, giggling ghost. Come on, John, let’s go to the stream.’ But John wanted to help the men unload the wagon, so Maggie sat on the side of the verandah and pretended not to watch me take Adeline inside to the bedroom. Adeline was going to share the girls’ bed. It was a tight fit with Maggie, Annie, Adeline and me, but I made sure Adeline was on the outside with me next to her, so Maggie couldn’t poke and prod her in the night.

  We lay in the dark on that first night and tried to pretend we couldn’t hear Adeline crying. If it had been me crying, I would have preferred no-one say anything. But maybe Adeline felt lonely.

  I patted her on the shoulder and she cried harder.